


The Interplay of Illusion and Magic

by SoulJelly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward interactions with humanity, Aziraphale is Menaced, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Demons, Episode 3 Cold Open Compliant, Great liberties taken with various historical events, Heroic Rescues, Holy Water Argument, Humour, M/M, Magicians, Missing Scenes, Pining, Seasonal - Halloween, Shenanigans throughout history, Stage Magic, The Magic Circle, The Occult Commitee, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-22 17:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulJelly/pseuds/SoulJelly
Summary: “When I said I wanted to enter the Magic Circle,” said Aziraphale, “this isnotwhat I had in mind.”In 1905 a British society of magicians is formed and Aziraphale badly wants to get in. It’s a shame he never really got the hang of the whole stage magic thing. Not to mention that a few failed card tricks might just be the least of his problems.





	The Interplay of Illusion and Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/gifts).

In every kind of game, and in every department of trickery, collusion has been utilised as a ready means of arriving at the consummation of the sharp's desires. It is seldom, indeed, that a scheme of any magnitude is devised without more than one person concerned in it [...] There is no end to the disguises in which these individuals have appeared, and apparently no limit to their ingenuity.

\- John Nevil Maskelyne, _Sharps and Flats_

_ London, 1905. _

_ Pinoli’s Restaurant. The founding of the Magic Circle. _

A forkful of tagliatelle hovered forgotten by Aziraphale’s mouth as he watched a human conjure a coin from thin air.

Aziraphale looked around the restaurant, waiting for a member of the Heavenly Host or the Other Side to appear in explanation of this supernatural feat. But Pinoli’s, with its high ceilings and mirrored glass, was full of humans, not an angel or demon or otherwise immortal entity in sight.

Aziraphale set down his fork, stood up and approached the crowded table.

“Excuse me, Sir--” Aziraphale said, leaning over a pile of silk scarves and decks of cards “--That feat with the coin, just now. I simply _ must _ know how--”

The man’s grin was wide. He did something complicated with his fingers. The coin blinked in the bright light and vanished. “Magic! Magic and illusion, Mr--?”

“Fell,” supplied Aziraphale.

“Mr Fell. Yes, extraordinary feats to be witnessed in awe, while their secrets remain just that.” He held out a hand. “John Maskelyne, stage magician. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

John indicated to an empty seat and Aziraphale hesitated. There was always a certain holding back that needed to be done with humans, a taut and necessary web of lies about Aziraphale’s true origins which stilted his interactions. They also aged far too quickly, and couldn’t hold their liquor half as well as a certain demon. It didn’t do to get too involved with them.

But the decades since 1862 had been lonely ones. He had spent a long time dining alone. He tried not to let his thoughts linger too long on Crowley these days, but there was always some reminder of his total and complete absence no matter where Aziraphale went.

He sat down.

“--So he bet me one thousand pounds that I couldn’t replicate the trick,” John was saying to another member of the party. “And that’s why I’ve elected to do just that in next month’s show.”

“The thing with the coin,” Aziraphale said, still staring at the man, John, as though the vanished shilling would flicker back into existence before his eyes. “I would really like to see it again, if you don’t mind.”

In the time it took Aziraphale to blink, four silver shillings appeared in John’s outstretched hands.

“Ah, I forgot one,” he said, a smile playing about his lips, and leaned forward to pluck a further coin from behind Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale gasped, pressing a hand to the offending appendage, as the others seated around them laughed. Another man, not to be one-upped, performed some complicated feat with three metal cups, producing three rubber balls where they had previously only been one.

“Absolutely fascinating,” murmured Aziraphale. “And all of you-” he just about remembered to omit the word _ humans _ “--can perform feats like this?”

“Some better than others,” quipped one man, and another jostled him good-naturedly.

“How would one go about learning such things?” asked Aziraphale. He could practically see Gabriel’s next report materialising into being with a pointed emphasis on _ too many frivolous human pursuits_, but curiosity was an overwhelming thing. “Do you share your secrets with one another, if not the audience?”

“Not as such…” said John, thoughtful. “But that’s given me an idea. A society of sorts, men of magic coming together to practice their craft. We could make regular meetings of it. What say you all, gentlemen?”  
  
There came a rousing chorus of agreement along the table.

Aziraphale was no stranger to the act of creation. He had been there for the first rains, after all, had witnessed stars blossoming into being. He had watched as humanity developed written language, the printing press, the book. Under human hands beauty and genius had been born, though it wasn’t always easy to tell which of humanity’s whims would stand the passage of time.

As Aziraphale looked around at the triumphant faces, he thought he might be bearing witness to the beginning of something special.

Crowley would have hated it and perhaps that, too, was part of the appeal.

\--

_ The intervening years: _

_ 1906\. _

“I’m sorry, Mr Fell,” said John Maskeylne, rising to his feet. “I can tell you’re passionate about the act, but I could see through all of your tricks. Perhaps try not to hide the rabbit so obviously in your top hat, next time?”

Aziraphale muttered something unintelligible, brushing fur and other unpleasant things from his shoulders.

“I’m sure you’ll get there, old chap.” Maskelyne placed a friendly hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Say, just as soon as you’ve passed your audition, everyone present at the founding meeting will be a member of the Magic Circle! You'd rather like the library, I think, we've built up an impressive collection of books already.”

“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale was on his way out of the audition room, already deep in thought. Perhaps he needed something more impressive than a rabbit. A cat? Or doves?

Years passed. Assignments from Heaven came and went (and no sign of Crowley).

Aziraphale, in all his business and blessings and books, forgot one very human component of stage magic: Practice.

\--

_ 1914\. _

“Supernatural powers!” roared Maskelyne, so loudly that Aziraphale jumped. Though the stage magician was much older now, and somewhat more scattered in his thoughts, he had lost none of his vivacity. He threw out an arm in his anger, unwittingly knocking a deck of cards from Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale bent to pick them up, patting his pockets for the rest of his equipment. It had been some time, but he was sure he could still remember his routine. The human did not appear to remember him, which was a relief. Aziraphale had retired his Mr Fell persona some years ago (probably a little too early if anything, as he didn't always get the timing right) and was waiting for the correct time for his ‘descendant’ to appear. He hated this in-between stage, disentangling himself from the lives of whatever humans had come to know him over the years. It was all ever so complicated.

In the corner of the room sat a small boy, seemingly unperturbed by the ranting. He was scribbling on a piece of paper, deep in concentration, but had looked up when the cards fell. He gave the angel a piercing stare, pencil momentarily forgotten.

“I’m here for--” began Aziraphale, but was cut off by the sound of a fist slamming onto a desk..

Maskelyne didn’t appear to have heard him. “That bloody spiritualist Alfred Wallace thinks my sleight of hand and cleverness is down to _ supernatural powers _ . How dare he! Stage magic is an _ art _! I’ll show him supernatural powers,” he grumbled, rummaging in his desk for paper and ink. “I’ll write the angriest letter he’s ever seen.”

“I’m here for my audition,” said Aziraphale, weakly. “The Magic Circle? I rather thought we’d agreed to meet at your office at noon, and well, here I am, so--”

“Yes, yes.” Maskelyne paused, turned around and squinted at Aziraphale through a deeply lined face. “Say, do you have an older brother? I knew a man, not too much younger than me. You look just like him.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, noncommittally. “Probably just a coincidence.”

“Wait! _Not_ a letter!” Maskelyne set down the ink and dropped his conversation with Aziraphale all at once. “I’ll investigate the occult myself! Yes… I’ll investigate claims to supernatural powers, expose fraud and protect the integrity of stage magic. I’ll prove there’s nothing more to my act than my own wits.” He spun and turned to Aziraphale. “An excellent idea, don’t you think?”

“Ah, yes, I suppose that would be the best course of action…”

“Yes.” Maskelyne nodded to himself, then looked up and his eyes met Aziraphale’s. “If there are occult happenings out there, I _ will _ find them. And I’ll keep them firmly away from my stage magic.”

There was a brief pause.

“So!” said Maskelyne brightly. “Are you ready for your audition? I'm sure my grandson here would love to watch.”

The little boy in question was scribbling again, occasionally stealing glances at the adults in the room. Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think this is the right time. You seem busy with your new project and all that, all that occult business, I wouldn’t want to get involved. Not that I am, in any way, involved with the occult, of course, or the supernatural, naturally, but you know how it is. Wouldn’t want to be getting under anyone’s feet, as it were.”

He was already backing out of the door, and it closed behind him on a rather puzzled Maskelyne.

No point even trying to mess with humans when they got interested in the occult, thought Aziraphale, heading back out into London’s streets. He wouldn’t be able to perform so much as a single miracle without a paranoid human breathing down his neck, not to mention all the extra precautions Upstairs would want to put in place.

No, he would head to Europe, see what Heaven was getting worked up about over there, and wait for all of this to die down.

-

_ 1922\. _

London saw war and rebuilt itself. Humanity strode on.

Aziraphale felt the niggling annoyance of a task incomplete and, remaining wistful and lonely and too righteously angry to seek out Crowley and make amends, occupied himself with failing several more auditions.

Maskelyne passed on and Aziraphale’s connection to the social world of practicing magicians died with him. His descendants weren't nearly so friendly, Aziraphale decided. He watched stage shows in smoke-thick rooms with heavy curtains and bright lights. Glamorous assistants were cut in half, men escaped from chains and tanks of water and Aziraphale marvelled at human ingenuity. Yet more books were written as magicians, under oath, shared their secrets with one another and tucked them away behind closed doors.

The bigger the art of stage magic grew, the more fascinated Aziraphale became with the Circle.

Aziraphale watched shows, and on this particular occasion he thought about coins.

Truly heinous things had been done in the name of money, but there was still something humble about the small silver shilling. It had been repurposed by magicians through the years to an object of lightning-quick fascination, pure entertainment. It was a very human thing, too, to interact with the world through their currency. Indeed it was hard for them to exist without it. Aziraphale always kept coins about his person rather than miracling them up when needed. He liked the weight and sound of them in his pocket, the way he could pass them on a whim to humans who needed them, easy as blessings.

He still couldn’t get that coin trick right, though.

\--

_ 1935\. _

Aziraphale was inspired by a new show he had seen. For his next audition, he attempted something rather daring involving sharpened blades and the use of his own oesophagus.

After the resulting mess, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be coming back for a while.

\--

And then, the church.

Bombs and burning flesh and unblemished books. The slow rebuilding of something precious amongst the wreckage.

It was long established that Aziraphale and Crowley did not say words like ‘thank you’ to one another, but now a new absence of vocabulary became apparent. The language of forgiveness was submerged instead in wine, coffee, dust-soaked afternoons in the bookshop. They did not talk about holy water.

Their disagreement was a river, still flowing with the strength of their convictions.

Their continued friendship was simply a bridge that they had agreed to build over it.

-

_ London, October 31st 1951. _

London grew ever more vast, a sprawling concrete monument to human civilisation. Aziraphale and Crowley threaded through Euston Road traffic and huddled deeper into their coats. The sky was growing dark. In Aziraphale's pocket was tucked a piece of paper, now crumpled and folded with multiple re-reads, and he took it out to smooth the creases and read it once more as they walked.

_Dear Mr Fell, we have heard of your interest in our organisation and we invite you to show us a routine worthy of entering the Magic Circle, wherein the most talented magicians and illusionists in Britain reside. Please see below for details of your audition on Wednesday, 31st October 1951..._

"I can't believe they're issuing letters these days," muttered Aziraphale. "Rather takes away from the exclusivity element. Still, it's flattering to be asked."

Crowley peered over his shoulder, eyebrow raised with mild interest beneath his glasses.

“Maybe they thought 'Oh, he hasn't shown up in a while, maybe we should send out a reminder'. How many auditions _is_ it going to take, angel?”

“I’ll have you know, Crowley, it’s much more difficult than it looks! All that sleight of hand...”

They turned down an unassuming side street and Aziraphale stopped beside a worn stone building. He stared longingly up at the windows, as though if he concentrated hard enough someone would appear and invite him inside.

Crowley looked from Aziraphale to the building, and back again.

“We have one small disagreement--”

“I’d hardly say _ small _ is the-”

“We don’t speak for eighty years,” Crowley continued, ignoring him, “and suddenly you become obsessed with human magic. Remind me to never leave you alone for that long again. Clearly it’s driven you a bit bonkers.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about said disagreement and a certain event in a certain church in 1941, and hardly needed reminding. There was a slightly awkward pause. A raindrop landed on his nose, followed quickly by several more. “Maybe there’s something wrong with my corporation,” he mused, glancing down at his hands. “Do you think Head Office would give me a new one with better fingers? For dexterity, you know.”

“Don’t even think about it,” said Crowley quickly. “Why can’t they just let you into this society by default anyway? I thought you were the one who inspired the whole thing in the first place.”

“Yes, well, they don’t _ know _ that, do they? Everyone had to audition. Everyone _ wanted _ to. I couldn’t very well say ‘no thanks, just let me in and I’ll prove myself later’, could I?”

“Don’t know why it’s such a big deal, really.”

Aziraphale spun on his heel and glared at him, pointing dramatically at the building.

“They have a _ library _ Crowley! An exclusive members-only library! It’s filled with rare books and absolutely fascinating literature on the study of magic. Maskelyne’s diaries! The original manuscript of _ Sharps and Flats _!” He gestured wildly, voice pitching. A few passers-by stared at them.

“So just miracle yourself into the library, if you’re that desperate?” asked Crowley. “Or, you know,” - conscious of the human attention Aziraphale’s outburst had attracted, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice, “Use the actual, real magic powers you possess to help along your audition.”

“Really, my dear, I resent the implication that I need to _ cheat _ to get in.” Aziraphale was back to staring at the building, a slight frown on his face. “It’s the principle of the thing. Besides, it can’t be that hard. It’s just a few magic tricks. If humans can do it, then there’s no reason a principality such as myself shouldn’t be able to.”

“Yeah, of course.” Laughter brimmed in Crowley’s voice. “That’s why you’ve been trying and failing since… what, the early 1900s?”

“Cheaters never prosper, my dear. I will get into the Magic Circle on my own merits, or not at all.”

“Sure thing, angel.”

“And if you don’t stop laughing, I will have to rescind my invitation to lunch tomorrow.”

Eighty years of silence was not erased by ten years of tentative repair work on their friendship and such threats still bore too much weight. Crowley immediately shut up.

“Okay, okay. Look, go in, get your audition out of the way and I'll meet you later on at the bookshop. We'll open a nice vintage and I'll scare away as many trick-or-treaters as you want, promise.”

“For the last time, I don't _mind_ when they're knocking because they want sweets. It's when they try to buy books that's the problem.”

Crowley smirked, fondness in his expression. He said nothing else, but simply waved goodbye and headed home the way they came.

It was raining thick and fast now, and Aziraphale eagerly pushed the door open and ducked into the welcoming light of the lobby. In celebration of the season the Magic Circle headquarters were draped with fake cobwebs and black paper lanterns, carved pumpkins squatting on the countertops. Beneath the seasonal decor, however, it wasn’t much different to when Aziraphale had last visited. There were the familiar heavy blue curtains, the framed photographs of magicians past, the signs of the zodiac arranged in a wide circle on the carpet.

A man stood in the centre of the room. He was wringing his hands with an air of impatience, eyes widening as Aziraphale approached. There was a flicker of something there that Aziraphale failed to catch; relief perhaps, or surprise, or recognition.

“Mr Fell, I presume? Welcome. My name is Arthur, I’ll be part of the committee overseeing your audition today. Please, come with me.”

He nodded. The thing with coming and going over the decades, thought Aziraphale, was that it was difficult to remember who you had met before and now failed to recognise due to their age. Arthur seemed familiar in a vague sort of way, but that could have been decades of human acquaintances blending into one. Best not to get too into potentially incriminating conversations.

Arthur had other ideas. As he fell into step beside Aziraphale, he cast him pointed glances. They headed up the spiral staircase, inlaid with convex silver discs which glinted in the light. Arthur seemed to be grappling with a question and finally went ahead and asked it. 

“Did an old relative of yours attend the founding meeting?”

More photographs lined these walls and Arthur pointed to one as they passed. It was grainy, sepia, the faces somewhat faded with time, but it was unmistakably Aziraphale in the crowd of magicians at Pinoli’s in 1905.

Aziraphale tried to keep a straight face.

“A coincidence, I’m sure.”

Arthur scrutinised him for a long moment, before saying doubtfully, “Must be a descendant. A very strong family resemblance, indeed.”

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale, trying to change the subject with a light chuckle. “I suppose magic must be in our blood!”

“Actually, I heard neither him nor any of his descendants actually passed the audition. He was the only founding member to not get into the Magic Circle, you know.”

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh, beginning to remember why exactly he didn’t go in much for interaction with humans. “Let’s move this along, shall we,” he said primly. 

Arthur nodded, still with that suspicious sidelong glance, and pushed open the door to a small room.

“Our auditionee has arrived,” he announced. Two judges sitting on wooden chairs craned their necks to look at him.

The room was small and lined with all manner of dusty bookcases and filing cabinets, overlayed with cheap Halloween decorations. Candles and glowing pumpkins provided light in lieu of a functioning overhead bulb. In the centre of the room was a large round rug, a wooden desk set upon it. Aziraphale suspected that, had this room been the site of his first audition nearly fifty years earlier, it too wouldn’t have looked much different between then and now. All of their funds were probably going into that exclusive library, he thought, pettily. How nice for them.

The other judges were dressed in costume, rather convincingly, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice. One had green-brown scaly skin and beady black eyes like a locust. The other was shorter, with a round face and a long nose like a beak. Their scaly hands sat folded beneath the sleeves of their dark robes.

“All ready for Halloween festivities, are we?” he asked lightly. “Those are some frightfully awful costumes, and please take that as a compliment. I’ve never seen such foul, ugly creatures in my life!”

The pair simply scowled at him. Arthur coughed lightly, closed the door and locked it.

“Please take a seat,” one of the other judges told him. Arthur dithered, then did so at last, scooting his chair closer to the door. He glanced at his companions as if waiting for their approval. The nearest one nodded.

“You have the floor, Mr Fell.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and crossed the edge of the rug to stand in its centre. He spread his hands over the wooden desk.

“All righty gentlemen,” he said. “For my first trick, I’m going to take this perfectly ordinary deck--” Here he fluttered the cards between his fingers “--and transform every card within into the ace of hearts. Impossible, I hear you cry! Oh-ho, watch and see if you can decipher my magician's secret!”

He gestured grandly. The cards were too loose in his grip, and several of them flew from his hands to scatter across the table.

“Oh, blast it!” muttered Aziraphale, bending to gather up the cards. “Not to worry, just a slight mishap. Nerves, you know. There we go,” he said, sweeping cards into a pile and patting them into a neat stack. “Apologies. Let me go again. Now, where was I… the ace of hearts--”

“Mr Fell,” said one of the robed judges. “Is that part of the act?” He pointed to a stray card which had landed directly in one of the lit candles, and was now aflame.

Aziraphale startled and grabbed at it, wincing as he burned his fingers. He flapped the card in the air until the fire went out, but only half of the card remained, blackened thoroughly at the edges. Aziraphale looked at it sadly.

“Well, never mind that. Fortunately I brought some spares.”

He pulled another deck from his pocket and fanned it out before him.

There was a long, expectant pause.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Crowley was the metaphorical demon on his shoulder. _ Just use your powers, angel _ , he would say he if was here. _ No one will know _. Aziraphale thought about the wealth of books hidden in these halls, the fascinating secrets of this human society. The feeling of a task unaccomplished, whereas Crowley got commendations from Hell on the regular for things he didn't even _do_. All of that achievement and prestige, closed off to him behind one simple, yet seemingly impossible, audition.

“Oh, fine then.” Aziraphale scowled. Perhaps it wasn’t a very angelic thing to do, this whole ‘giving up’ business, but Aziraphale wanted something and was running out of ways to get it. He had tried his best to do it the human way. There was nothing for it.

He snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

He snapped again, looking at his fingers in betrayed surprise.

Again, nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale to the audience. “Usually something’s supposed to happen here…”

“Are you quite done, Mr Fell?” asked a judge. “Or should I say _Aziraphale_, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate?”

Arthur shrank back in his chair as the unnamed judges stood, allowing their glamours to slip away at last. There was a reason those costumes were so convincing…

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open.

“You’re _ real _ demons!”

They burst into gleeful laughter.

“That’s right, Principality. And you’ve walked right into our trap. So nice of you to accept the human's invitation.”

One demon stepped forward and used the toe of their boot to flip up the rug. Beneath it, drawn in chalk on the hardwood floor, was an intricate circle etched in familiar symbols. Every angel knew the scripts of ritualistic magic that would siphon away their powers. It was a testament to Aziraphale's single-minded focus on his magic that he hadn't noticed earlier.

“Oh no,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh _ yes_,” sneered the demon. “There’s no getting out of this one.”

Aziraphale strode to the edge of the circle. It was no good. An invisible wall closed him in. He pressed his hands to it, despairingly, pressing for any sign of weakness but finding it completely solid. Now that the demons’ glamours had faded, the air in the room was beginning to grow thick and acrid. Smoke curled around their feet.

“When I said I wanted to enter the Magic Circle,” said Aziraphale, trying to ignore the smell of brimstone now prickling his nostrils, “this is _ not _ what I had in mind.”

“And yet, here you are.” The locust demon splayed his hands, his lips drawing back to reveal a row of browned teeth. He gestured to himself cordially. “The name’s Abaddon, by the way.” He nodded towards his companion. “This is Valac.”

“Thank you so kindly for the introduction,” said Aziraphale dryly.

“No problem.” Valac might have missed the sarcasm or been deliberately obtuse; Aziraphale couldn’t tell. “You know, it’s an awful shame we had to cut your act short. I was having a right laugh watching you make a fool of yourself.”

Aziraphale frowned. “This is an incredibly nerve-wracking experience, thank you very much.”

“I loved the bit when you set the card on fire!”

They were laughing again, Abaddon leaning against the barrier and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Okay, _ okay_, you’ve made your point!" snapped Aziraphale.

The demons’ laughter subsided and as it did a quiet voice sounded from the corner of the room.

“Excuse me. Sirs. I’ve played my part and done all you asked. I've brought him... it... the angel to you. Might I collect my reward?”

All three heads turned to Arthur, folded against the far wall. Now that all had been revealed, he approached the group with renewed confidence.

“You helped them to do this?” asked Aziraphale, incredulous, Abaddon's earlier line about the invitation now fully registering with him. Between the disastrous audition (yet again) and the letter (which he now had to conclude was fake), he didn't know which to feel more embarrassed about. Add to that a heavy dose of confusion about why this unlikely team had conspired against him, and Aziraphale felt rather at a loss.

Arthur glanced at him, then looked away.

Abaddon tapped his chin in thought. “Human. You have been helpful. We’ll allow you your reward.”

“Is-- Is it really trapped in there?” asked Arthur. He kept stealing glances at Aziraphale. “Fascinating... it looks exactly the same as it did when I first saw it, as a young boy.” He frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the concept of how immortal and ageless Aziraphale must really be whilst taking in the very human-looking worn waistcoat and tie. It explained the earlier line of suspicious questioning at any rate. “It doesn’t _ look _ like an angel.”

“He is. You can _ smell _ the goodness coming off him.” Valac’s nose wrinkled. “Disgusting.”

“Sir, why on Earth would you help them?” asked Aziraphale. “They’re _ demons_! No good has ever come from humanity messing around with demons.”

Arthur turned to fully face Aziraphale at last, with a cold glare which made the angel flinch. “You’re just as bad,” he said. “Corrupting the Circle with your occult powers.”

“Ethereal,” Aziraphale corrected quietly, but Arthur didn’t seem to hear him.

“You _ were _ there, at the founding of the Circle, weren’t you? And if you really are who they say, you’re the one responsible for warping reality around London for centuries. Whenever you come here under one of your little false identities and fail an audition, there’s always some rainstorm, or the roof leaks, or--”

“I suppose I _ might _ have done that, but it was quite unintentional, you see--”

“My grandfather, Maskelyne, even founded the Occult Committee,” Arthur continued, “To seek out any supernatural threats to his precious stage magic. He didn’t truly believe in that kind of thing, but there were some who did, and the Committee never died when he did. Instead we carried on its occult research, first my father, then me.”

Aziraphale listened attentively. Abaddon and Valac picked up the playing cards and began to flick through them, evidently having heard all of this before.

Arthur, gaining traction now, began to pace back and forth before the circle. “Maskelyne’s contemporaries were right to think there were supernatural things happening around him, even if he didn’t realise it himself. But it wasn’t Maskelyne who was the source of the oddities. It was _ you_.”

Arthur drew breath. He paused in his pacing, eyes glazed as he stared into the past.

“Over the years, the Occult Committee’s practices have continued in secret, using resources meant for the Magic Circle. We understand that no good can come of the supernatural interfering on Earth. Especially not when it comes to stage magic. On that front, the Committee and the Circle are, and always will be, united.” Here, Arthur turned to Aziraphale again. “You see, magic is an artform to do with misdirection and sleight of hand. We are not wizards and warlocks and supernatural entities,” he spat these words like they might be foul things stuck to the bottom of one’s shoe. “We are skilled performers. And nothing can jeopardise the integrity of our craft.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Aziraphale, slowly. “You’re so insistent on stage magic being _ not _ real, that you’d eliminate all traces of real magic?”

“The Committee’s original intent was simply to investigate and refute such claims of so-called ‘real’ magic. But essentially, yes. The supernatural is dangerous and must be eliminated. Protecting the magicians’ code is but a facet of that goal.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, taking all of this in. “So you’ve teamed up with a pair of demons.”

Abaddon chimed in, “It just so happens we have a common enemy around these parts. _You_. Nice little plan we’ve had in the works, this. Few months of planning, getting to know this here human, convincing him to get on board. Nice break away from the office, all told.”

“Well, so much for enjoying the many pleasures of humanity!” scoffed Aziraphale, feeling rather insulted. “If I wasn’t wanted in the world of magic, all you had to do was say so. John Maskelyne was a decent sort. He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“Perhaps. But I’m sure he would agree that you’re a terrible magician,” replied Arthur. “Awful performance, no stage presence. Can’t even do the most simple sleight of hand trick. You make a mockery of the artform.”

“That’s _ terribly _ rude of you. I have a fine appreciation of the craft!” Aziraphale paused, taking a deep, slow breath. “That can’t just be it, though, surely. What else is in it for you?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You also have a valuable collection of rare books. The demons said they would force you to hand them over, if I cooperated.”

“Now I’m afraid that is a step too far!” Aziraphale countered. “I absolutely refuse to be blackmailed into giving up my books.”

Valac stepped seamlessly through the barrier and pressed his face up to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale took an involuntary step back, and another, until his back hit the edge of the ornate wooden desk. The demon leaned over him and traced one crusty nail over Aziraphale’s cheek, where a bead of golden blood welled before trickling uncomfortably down Aziraphale’s neck. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stared, powerless, into the demon’s pitch black eyes.

“Good job there’s no blackmail involved, Principality," Valac said, his voice now low and dangerous. "We’ll just take them over your discorporated body.”

The demon grabbed Aziraphale’s chin in one hand and his lapel in the other, spinning Aziraphale around and throwing him harshly against the wall of the barrier. Aziraphale cried out, stumbled, unprepared for the punch to the stomach that followed. He gasped and sank to his knees, where Valac’s shadow fell over him.

“What a perfect time for your demise, Aziraphale. On All Hallows Eve, when the veil is thin. We have all the power here, and you have none.”

Crouched on the floor and slowly recovering himself, Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Demons,” he muttered. “Always _ so _ dramatic.”

Speaking of dramatic demons, he thought to himself, a certain one usually appeared by now for a timely heroic rescue. Aziraphale craned his neck and looked about the room expectantly, but there was nothing. Where _ was _ Crowley? Surely Aziraphale couldn’t be expected to enact his own rescue. That wasn’t how they did things. If Aziraphale got discorporated because Crowley was too busy trick-or-treating to make himself useful, he wasn’t going to be happy.

Valac was still standing over him, sneering. Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet but found himself blocked in between the demon and the barrier.

“No angelic allies coming to help you, Aziraphale?" asked Abaddon. "What a pity.” He crossed the circle almost lazily, nudging Valac out of the way so that he too could square up to Aziraphale. He snapped his fingers and flame sparked between them, casting Abaddon's already terrifying face into flickering shadow. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide as they drank in the flame.

“Well, yes, um, actually, of _ course _ my allies are going to help me. Gabriel will be here any second, just you wait and see.”

Abaddon cackled.

“Okay, well, maybe not _ Gabriel _, but I’m sure someone will--” 

He winced as Abaddon waved the flame playfully in front of his face. He tried to wriggle away, but this only amused the demons further.

“The Almighty would never let anything happen to me,” Aziraphale continued, but he sounded uncertain. Who else even knew he was here?

“I’m sure She wouldn’t. Oh, wait.” Casually, carelessly, Abaddon struck out with the fire. It wasn’t true hellfire, just a miracled flame, but it still hurt beyond imagining as it blistered across Aziraphale’s skin. His left cheek ached, red raw and stretched tight. He let out a pitiful groan despite himself. “Would you look at that,” said Abaddon. “No Almighty swooping in to save you.”

There was a pause, nothing but Aziraphale’s ragged breaths in the half-darkness.

“What I can’t figure out is how you’ve been giving the demon Crowley so much trouble,” said Abaddon. “He invented the Spanish Inquisition for Satan’s sake. Then he claims he can’t defeat you and yet here you are, _ whimpering _ under me.”

“You here to finish the job, then?” ventured Aziraphale.

“We’ve been enlisted, yes, to help Crowley take you out once and for all.”

“And Crowley was informed about this, was he?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “That he’d be getting some help called in?”

The demons looked at one another. 

“Someone said they’d send him a memo…” said Valac thoughtfully.

“Wasn’t my job, I was on human duty.” Abaddon raised his hands, palms up, deflecting blame.

“I told Hastur to tell one of the guys in HR to tell that one guy who does most of the admin.”

“Well, you should have checked with Hastur shouldn’t you! No wonder Crowley hasn’t even turned up. Was wondering about that.”

They began to argue amongst themselves. Aziraphale and Arthur exchanged looks.

“Please don’t worry,” Aziraphale said kindly. Despite the inconvenience Arthur had caused, he couldn’t help being kind to humans as a whole. They generally needed it. “They do just get like this sometimes.”

The human’s mouth was gaping slightly open. He nodded slightly, no doubt confused by this sudden veering off from cold-blooded torture to bureaucratic bickering. Aziraphale took the time to collect himself, straightening his coat and pointedly ignoring the pain from his injuries. Presently, the demons remembered where they were and what they were supposed doing.

“All right, enough of this,” said Valac. “How will you meet your end, Principality? Stabbing? Beheading? Slowly burning to death?”  
  
“They all sound quite unpleasant.”

“Good.”

Valac cracked his knuckles and approached once more. Aziraphale cast about wildly, trying to think of something, anything to stall for some time. His eyes fell upon the deck of cards still fanned out across the wooden desk.

“Wait!” he said. “Wait, wait. Before you discorporate me, I have one request.”

“What makes you think we’ll listen to you?”

“You’ll enjoy it,” Aziraphale said, “I promise.”

Abaddon raised an eyebrow. “We’re listening.”

“I want to finish my act. I’ll make it entertaining, I promise.” He looked over at Arthur. “You can judge me, see if it's good enough. There’ll be no supernatural power at work - I can’t, with the circle, you see - just my own wits. Just one last chance before I die to get into the Circle.” He stared around at them all beseechingly. “Please.”

“I don’t know…” said Arthur.

“Actually, yeah.” Abaddon was already pulling up a chair and sinking down into it. “Gave me a good laugh last time and we’re not in any rush. Halloween in Hell is a nightmare, the office’ll be absolutely rammed with everyone going out for their evening temptings. I’d rather be up here if I’m honest.”

“You have a point…” Valac was returning to his chair, too. “No sense me rushing home. My man’s going out for a quick half, which means I won’t see him until Bonfire Night. Well, go on then,” he gestured to Aziraphale. “Get on with it.”

“Right, right.” Aziraphale looked down at the cards, walked around to the edge of the desk and spread his hands, shuffling them once more. If he’d felt under pressure before, that was nothing compared to now. His hands trembled as he ran a thumb over the edge of the deck.

His life literally depended on this.

“Okay, gentlemen. For my first trick, I’m going to...”

He fumbled painfully through the act. There were all the classics. Cups and balls, the balls hidden clumsily under the table. Silk scarves which snagged on his sleeves. Card tricks. Then, just as the demons were beginning to fidget, Abbadon releasing a long open-mouthed yawn, Aziraphale found some inspiration. His hand touched upon something small and round in his pocket.

_ The humble coin. _

He thought back, decades past, to that first glint of magic under bright restaurant lights. His own astonished delight as Maskelyne had grinned and pulled a coin from behind his ear.

Yes, he thought. That should do it.

“Okay, right-y ho, let’s move along then! For this next part, I’m going to need some audience participation!”  
  
That sparked their interest. Arthur watched with something like exasperation and impatience as Valac and Abaddon argued about who would participate. Abaddon settled it by standing up abruptly and pushing Valac over in his chair, then he walked up to the circle, grinning.

“All right, Principality, let’s make this a good one. Last trick before I discorporate you.”

“Yes, yes, very well. Now, you’ll see that in my hand I have four coins.” He held them out, four slightly worn shillings. “Now, I will make them travel from my hand directly to you."

Abaddon frowned. "No way you can do that without a miracle."

"We'll see, shall we? Now, you Sir, put your hand across the barrier there’s a good fellow… Take hold of this shilling for me. I’ll take the other three. I will transfer these shillings into your own hand.”

Aziraphale closed his palm over them, feeling the hard round edges against the creases of his hand.

“Okay, excellent,” he murmured. “Now, if you’ll just lean in here, Abaddon. Palms down by your sides, that’s it…”

Abaddon leaned curiously into the circle.

Aziraphale squeezed the hand which held the shillings, drew back and punched the demon in the face.

The thing was that Aziraphale, despite his haplessness when it came to sleight of hand, was generally regarded as very intelligent. He was at least intelligent enough to know when trickery only has so much mileage, and that there are some situations where a good solid punch will do just as well.

Ichor spurted from Abaddon’s nose and he reeled back in pain, his coin clattering to the floor. He hissed a curse. At the same time Arthur and Valac yelled, the second demon leaping to his feet and crossing the circle in two quick strides. He pushed his wounded ally aside and reached for Aziraphale.

“How dare--”  
  
But that was as far as he got, because a black-gloved hand closed around his throat.

A pair of yellow eyes met Aziraphale’s over Valac’s shoulder. Valac strained, tried to turn his head to see his assailant, but another black-gloved hand held him firmly place. Valac struggled, turning paler and paler, as breath was slowly squeezed from him. When he was finally released he collapsed to the floor, faint and wheezing.

The newcomer stared disdainfully down at Valac. Their face was obscured by an elaborate black and gold mask, their long hair tumbling over their shoulders. Their stockings shimmered in the pale light beneath a heavy black skirt. Their yellow eyes met Aziraphale’s with full recognition. Between their sharp teeth, Aziraphale saw a flicker of forked tongue. Everything in Aziraphale soared in relief.

“About time,” he muttered.

“Quiet, angel, and let’s focus on getting out of here in one piece.” Crowley tugged at his gloves, pressed his mask more firmly over his face.

“Who the Hell are you?” yelled Abaddon, staggering to his feet and wiping black blood from his swollen nose.

“That’s not important,” said Crowley. “Now, are you going to leave quietly or are you really as stupid as you look?”

Abaddon snarled. He ran forward, slinging a punch which Crowley easily dodged. The two demons grappled and Aziraphale watched, helpless, in the circle.

Valac was still on the floor, wheezing. Crowley carelessly stepped over him. The demon about managed to reach out a hand and grab Crowley’s ankle. Crowley staggered, unbalanced, and lurched sideways against a cabinet.

They didn’t see the candle fall at first. It rolled across to Aziraphale’s feet, flame catching on the ancient rug. Aziraphale, trapped in the circle, watched in horror as the flames began to lick along its edge. A combination of old fabric, dusty books and cheap Halloween decorations was most certainly not a good one when it came to open flames.

“Break the circle, for goodness sake!” he yelled.

Crowley looked up, eyes wide. There would never be a more horrifying sight to him as their eyes met across the room, of Aziraphale, trapped in flames.

He kicked the rug aside and swept his foot through the chalk circle, blurring the symbols beyond comprehension. Aziraphale sighed gratefully as he felt his power flood back into him. “I’m terribly sorry,” he told Valac, who had risen to his feet and was squaring up to him. “I don’t like to fight, but if I have to, I shall.” 

He grabbed the only thing remotely resembling a weapon that he had, his magician’s wand.

The memory of the flaming sword returned to him, the heft and weight in his hands. The wand ignited with ethereal fire, and without even realising it Aziraphale himself glowed with a golden flame. The demons, Crowley included, cowered in the holy light, throwing their hands up to shield their eyes.

Crowley squinted, and saw through his eyes that where Aziraphale stood there was a refracted, glowing, many-eyed thing. When it spoke its voice was barely Aziraphale’s, distorted and echoed a hundred times. It seemed to seep right into the core of him, setting his brain alight and his skin buzzing.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you once more to leave.”

“I don’t know about you,” Valac said to his companion, face turned, pained, from the overwhelming light. “But I’m going back Downstairs and writing this one off as a loss.”

“We might have stood a chance if we had Crowley here to back us up.” Abaddon was panting, ichor oozing from his various cuts and dripping thickly onto the floor. Beside him, Valac was rubbing at the bruises on his neck.

Crowley laughed. “I’d like to see this ‘Crowley’ fellow try to take me on.”

"You wouldn't stand a chance against him," growled Valac. "He invented the Spanish Inquisition, you know!"

With a crackle and a wisp of smoke, the demons vanished.

The light faded slowly, leaving the room darkened once more except for the hungry glow of the fire. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and that, too, vanished in an instant. The room was back to normal, with a little more tartan decor than usual because Aziraphale could never quite help himself.

“You’re hurt.”

It wasn’t a question. Aziraphale felt the intensity of the words as Crowley’s gaze swept over his face. The left side of his face blistered in an ugly burn, and the right shimmered with dried blood.

“It’s nothing.” A quick miracle and the skin healed instantly.

“It could have not been nothing.”

“We sorted it. I had it under control.”

Crowley snorted. “Pssh.” A look passed over his face as though remembering something. He turned to address the human on his right.

“Lisssten, you. Human. Messing with the occult to eliminate it, still _ counts _ as messing with the occult. Don’t do it, ever. _ Very _bad for your health.”

Arthur was nodding frantically. Aziraphale came up beside Crowley and placed a hand on the demon’s shoulder.

“My dear, I can’t see that threatening him will do any good.”

“He was about to watch you get brutally dissscorporated!” Crowley made some incoherent noises of frustration which mostly degenerated into hissing. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“He’s right, you know,” he said to Arthur conversationally. “This kind of thing never ends well for your lot, I’m afraid.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Arthur’s voice was high-pitched with fear.

Aziraphale turned expectantly to Crowley.

"What are you looking at me for?"

"Well, what _are_ you going to do to him?"

"Why do I have to do it?"

"You can't expect me to do it. I'm the nice one!"

Crowley sighed.

There was rather a lot of demonic miracle work involved in the sifting and skimming of Arthur Maskelyne’s memories. He would leave the Magic Circle headquarters that night with a raging headache and some very confusing dreams thereafter, and would never quite be the same again (as is to be expected when a large chunk of your memory is forcibly removed), but there were some things that, unfortunately, just had to be done.

When Arthur was sent home at last, wandering blearily from the building, Crowley snapped his fingers. His disguise vanished, replaced by the usual black jacket, trousers and dark glasses. 

“Well, that was a thing.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale brushed ash from his coat and looked about the ruined room. “Another day, another demon, I suppose." There was something very nostalgic about all of this. It reminded him of the Bastille, and the church. It felt like old Aziraphale and Crowley, before their argument. Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling, a note of playfulness in his voice. “You were late.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Don’t lecture me about timekeeping, angel. I got here in time to save you some serious paperwork, if that isn’t too cliche for you. If I’d been late, _ you _would be a pile of discorporated ash right now.”

He had a point, Aziraphale supposed.

“Well, thank--”

“_Don’t _ say it.”

Yes, well-trodden lines. Familiar. Aziraphale knew this dance.

“Uh-- Somewhere’s bound to be open late. Maybe we can get something to eat--”

The look on Crowley’s face was unexpectedly fierce and Aziraphale stopped short at the sight of it. He had removed his sunglasses for the full effect; Aziraphale shivered slightly beneath that serpentine glare.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Aziraphale faltered. This wasn’t how things usually went. “What do you mean?”

Crowley flung out his arms towards the ruins of the room. “Demons! People from our respective sides sticking their noses in, whether they know about the Arrangement or not.”

“Don’t say it so loud,” Aziraphale admonished, but Crowley’s only response was to step in closer and press his lips to Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale shivered. How was it that they were only allowed to be so close in situations like these?

“I’ll say what needsss to be said. You need to look at the bigger picture. Precautions. Inssurance. Reconsssider my request.”

“I-- I’m sorry Crowley, I can’t--”

Crowley stepped back abruptly and replaced his glasses. “Have a nice evening, angel. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

That was reassuring at least. Aziraphale felt dizzy, from the close contact and the emotions rolling off Crowley. Frustration and fear and a strange sort of… protectiveness?

Before he could really examine it, the demon turned, gone, swallowed up by shadows.

Aziraphale was left alone with the candles and their last dying flames.

\--

There was a bright side to the evening's events. Aziraphale was alone in the Magic Circle headquarters after dark, unsupervised. And well, he hadn’t exactly passed his audition, but there was something to be said for chasing off a group of hostile demons and preventing the place being burned to the ground. He’d earned a little _ something. _Aziraphale was deep in thought as he pushed open the door to the library.

Outside the streets were filled with human laughter, music, doors being knocked upon, treats being opened. Humanity, oblivious to the very real supernatural horrors that lurked here on Earth.

Things that holy water could make short work of, in a pinch.

There was a long night ahead, with plenty of time to think. He found a comfortable chair and opened up a book, and within moments he was absorbed into a different world completely.

Despite everything, despite the painful decisions that would eventually have to be made, Aziraphale was determined to have a very pleasant evening indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge thanks to the nonny who beta-read this!
> 
> Although liberties have been taken with John Maskelyne, the Magic Circle, the Occult Committee and the general history of British stage magic, they are all fascinating pieces of history in their own right and well worth reading up on.


End file.
